


The Players

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU, F/M, Petyr/Sansa Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr appraises Mlle. Stark, the focus of their bet, over a game of cards. <i>Dangerous Liaisons</i> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Players

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Petyr/Sansa Week on tumblr.

“Do you find the city welcoming?” It was the first words he had spoken to her beyond their standard, expected, greetings. Though it was no more than a basic question it opened the door to something more. The beginning of a sense of back-and-forth, the first step on a path he hoped would lead him to his expected goal.

“Quite welcoming indeed.” A soft smile accompanied her own standard issue response.

This would be easy; it _should_ be easy. He had told the woman (Barbrey, so hard it was at times to think of her in anything more than the abstract!) as much when she put him to this challenge. And when he saw this fresh-faced girl, her clear eyes blinking in the glare of Paris, he had thought the task would be over and done with before it started.

But a fortnight had passed and he was just now speaking his first words to her. They were not alone, having settled down for a game of cards (their hostess, a round and pleasant woman dripping in jewels, had expressed shock and delight at a man seating himself at her table) and he was just now speaking to her, voice cutting into the shuffle of the cards.

Mlle. Stark was as fresh-faced a beauty as any that came out of the convent, her skin hardly needing powder at all to achieve its ivory perfection. And she had all the manners of the convent as well, the soft-spoken pleasantries and the soundless steps. But there was a strand in her behavior that, despite all he had seen, surprised and intrigued Petyr. He had seen women of her description countless times before, had watched them self-destruct in the glare of the capital like moths to a flame. And that was why he had nearly laughed at Barbrey’s request, for if Sansa _was_ truly of the type of convent girl he was familiar with it would take no effort at all. The Lady Dustin, in his view, was sending a general to perform the services of a foot soldier.

But that was before he had taken close observation of this girl. Perhaps Barbrey was right in assigning the duty where she did. Perhaps there was nothing ordinary here.

Sansa was silent, in the way that convent-educated girls so often were, but her silence did not seem to be accompanied by a lack of interest. On the contrary her eyes were always working their way about the room, never settling on any one object or person for very long, but when she did it was with unmistakably sharp precision. Those clear eyes, which Petyr had taken as little more than evidence of innocence, suddenly gained a depth that was beyond anything he expected. The sharp ice of Barbrey’s glare was absent, but there was a spark of intelligence that reminded him of the older woman’s gaze. 

It chilled him, somewhat. Perhaps it was the knowledge that his assumptions about her were not entirely on base.

And, chasing that deep-seated spinal chill was an unmistakable _thrill._  

Conversation at the card table was as perfunctory and dull as he had expected it to be, the slight snippets of gossip that the ladies threw around falling on uninterested ears (anything truly worth knowing he had already learned or caused). Mlle. Stark seemed as uncaring of this as he was, though her sharp eyes remained trained on every person in the room, her gaze extending far beyond those seated at their table.

“Oh my!” Their hostess exclaimed in delight once all the cards were laid flat and unguarded on the table. “It looks as though you have won again!” Over murmurs about convent luck and warnings against fortune hunters the young woman blushed and gathered her winnings. There was a startling lack of calculation in her manner, and Petyr would know it if he saw it. Her skills seemed to be completely unknown to her.

But he knew those skills well. The ability to read persons and actions, to unravel the combination of lies that made up the human construct—this was an area in which he was quite familiar. And he had seen it in others, in Barbrey’s clever eyes and cruel smile most of all. But never before had he seen in the raw like this, a natural trait in this unpolished girl. One that brought her winnings at the table and allowed her to navigate the waters of Paris unhurt, but not one she seemed to have any power over. Seeing her giggle now, begging the others for another game, it was clear to him what exactly she was doing with that piercing gaze of hers.

The others left in a cloud of powder and feathers; Petyr paid them no heed. The Stark girl met his eyes briefly, and it was impossible to tell whether the blush on her cheeks was real, rogue, another level of deceit or some combination of the three. That quick gaze was enough to ignite a spark of interest, independent of the bet, deep inside.

“I don’t suppose you will tell me your secret?” He kept his voice friendly, his gaze leaving her now down-turned eyes.

She laughed, a light sound that spoke of something between relief and embarrassment. Her eyes flickered up once more. She was always looking, this one. “I have none. They don’t teach you how to gamble in the convent.”

“No, I suppose not.” He stood then and offered her his arm. She hesitated just for a moment. She had heard stories of him, of course, but her mother was right there, and what was the worst that could happen? In a flutter of silk she was on her feet and linked to him. “But surely they teach you something?”

“Only what is proper.” Her voice sounded so sincere that Petyr could not help but feel she wholeheartedly believed in what was proper and good.

But clearly she was marked for something beyond that. Through a chance of luck or birth or circumstances she had ended up with senses sharped beyond her years or experience. Rough though it was it was _there_ , and seeing this skill so fresh and unadorned attracted him in a way he had never expected.

How he longed to see it coaxed and polished.

“Shall we take our places for supper?” she asked, forgetting all about the card table. Her eyes were bright and innocent, her lips pale and slightly parted. The spark was gone but the memory remained, the promise of seeing it again more appetizing to him than any meal.

Petyr said nothing but guided her to the table, her grip tighter than necessary on the bits of silk his fingers could grasp, laying claim before the conquest was made.


End file.
